One Good Soul And the Corruption Thereafter
by Jenyae Ma'ad Dofs
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have come to an agreement with the above and below. They will test ONE human, and come to a conclusion as to the worth of humanity--not that either of them really wants to do this, mind. NEW CHAPTER! Wynter's "reality" check... ?
1. The Perfect Subject

**ONE GOOD SOUL**

**And the Corruption Thereafter**

Wynter A. Thompson was very, very flustered.

Life had been quite simple, really. Every day, she would get up, dress well, arrive to school fashionably late so that the teachers always excused her, get good grades in everything, return home, continue to get good grades, go to sleep, and repeat steps one through seven again and again until summer came around ( at which point she would mainly do the same thing again, except the small exchange in words in step two, turning from "arrive to school fashionably late" to "arrive at extra-curricular courses" in a manner that no one is really sure whether or not it could be termed 'late,' but dismiss it as simply being easier to mark Wynter as 'present').

Now, this was of course able to be fluxed; but in minor ways, like the occasional weekend science-convention, church volunteer work, or trip to the WiseFries fast-food when she really was in need of some "enthusiasm." All she had to do was stick to the schedule, and Wynter could easily see herself making it through to college. No real social interaction was necessary in her eyes, and family matters would be resolved just like that: things that are tedious, and which a well-performed "I Love You!" every once in a while can take care of on its own. Because of these definitions she had made for herself, Wynter considered herself, in a minor faction, "quite perfectly well-calculated," which unfortunately was exactly how the outside world had labeled her from the start.

This was, of course, until things around her started to shape out as, well, "abnormal." 

To understand what Wynter has in mind as "abnormal," one might want to direct themselves to that strange Sunday afternoon, when, after dusting off the candle stand in the front of her local church, (no one really knew what kind of church it was: it wasn't of the normal kind, to say the least—not one cross, literally hundreds of candels that sported colors other than just white, and it didn't seem to even sponser the little plaque or lettering announcing that it was a "Holy Church," and the fact that not one drop of holy water was admitted in was of course cause for worry in the community; point being, the "church" had really just showed up one day, no one able to remember ever seeing it before, but not being able to deny that it must have been there the whole time) Wynter was surprised to hear two voices conversing.

Normally, of course, this would be of no coincidence. But it was; problem being that the voices belonged to two /particular/ hosts, which no one within the right mind set (at least from Wynter's perspective) should be naturally inclined to hear conversing together without argument.

One host being the dark, mysterious guy who had been (or, Wynter rather hoped had been...) checking her out from his sleek Bentley's rolled-down window two days earlier, on the school campus, with _Queen music projecting from the speakers. Too Wynter, he had seemed rebellious, stylish, and the kind of guy that hair gel actually looks good on even though he has long hair and full-round no-light shades, which again looked good on him, never-the-mind normal stereotypes. Here, we can see her thoughts running somewhere along the lines of "Hot... ouch... very cool... somebody pinch me... ahhh... I wonder what color eyes he has?"_

These being the complete opposites to the thoughts that ran through her head whenever she thought of her "Old World" English teacher, Mr. Speare. A second-hand bookseller, likely quite intelligent in his own right, one of those kinds of adults that you just want to hug out of... sympathy, and obviously gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.

He, of course, was the host of the second voice in the conversation that went something like so:

Cool Guy:         "So they approved of the selection up there for you, right?"

Mr. Speare:      "Of course, of _course.  She's a perfect choice, my boy, glad you pointed her out.  Honestly, I wouldn't have paid _her_ much attention otherwise, what with her always arriving at my class in the state that she does…"_

Cool Guy:         "Angel."

Mr. Speare:      "And how she acts like there really is no reason to the whole of it…"

Cool Guy:         _"Angel."_

Mr. Speare:      "Its like she's some wind up toy for one of your hellhounds to chase around for a millennia or so, always doing the _same thing, over and over, I swear, well, I don't _swear_, I mean…"_

Cool Guy:         _"AZIRAPHALE!"_

Mr. Speare:      "She really needs to—oh, I'm sorry, Crowley, what were you saying?"

At this point, Mr. Speare had finally come to realize that the topic of their thought un-audienced discussion had was standing about 3 yards to their direct left, down praying aisle 40, seat 04. Wynter had at this time, obviously, completely abandoned her dusting duties, finding that a much more interesting project was at hand.

Mr. Speare looked a little shocked, if not disgruntled, to say the least. The cool guy who apparently really HAD been checking her out, with long hair tied back and no-light shades, had his head to the ground, and almost looked like he was sincerely wishing himself out of the situation. Of course that wouldn't work; humans can't just wish themselves away to another situation, time and place.

Or, as we said, Wynter was flustered to find out... perhaps they can.

Suddenly the three were standing in her first period English classroom, dusting-needed books and all. The two adults, (as Wynter now found she could discern that the cool sunglasses guy in fact, was not, a late teenager) now in completely different garb and appearance—one having blondish-brown hair that obviously had its own structure of dimensions, clad in a somber tweed jacket, corduroy pants and a tartan tie, and the other, retaining his shades, with an Italian leather jacket that fit perfectly and a pair of car keys hanging out of its pockets—were staring straight at her, as if they were thieves who had just kidnapped their first human and weren't quite sure whether to tie her up and gag her or to treat her politely and serve her some brew tea with biscuits on the side for snack.

Crowley (Wynter wasn't quite sure how she knew this, but that was a sub-shock in comparison to what had just happened) walked over to a guilty-looking Aziraphale, keeping one eye-frame on Wynter at all times.

The demon reached up and patted the dithering angel on the back.

"Well done, Angel. Well done."


	2. Dealings and Acquaintances

[A/N: Sorry it took so long for stupid second chapter.  Got a lot of "No-likey" beta-ing from multiple peoples ::bows before her beta for little tid-bits, her delta for opinions, and her gamma for mutilating it with the truth and many much needed grammar corrections::.  They've been now either ignored, acknowledged, embraced, or considered.  This is my fic.  I can do what I want with it.

No.  That's not really true.  The main two characters are not mine.  And I apologize now for all OOCness.  Will be EXPLAINED at the end.  Enjoy! (::hopes?::)]

**ONE GOOD SOUL (And the Corruption Thereafter)** ****

**_Chapter 2: Dealings and Acquaintances_**

****

"Well done, Angel.  Well done."

_What? Angel?!_

Wynter screamed.

"Oh, Beelzebub be blessed! Aziraphale!"

"Well, it's not _my_ fault that she was there.  Really, there was no reason that _I_ should know that! I mean, you of all people should know that we don't keep the records on the volunteers; that would just mess up things—"

"And you think things are **not** messed up as it _is_?! For blight of Satan, Angel, take care of the girl!"

"Why _me_? You're the one who brought her up to be the subject, so go ahead, take your first test results: Test Number One, Subject under stress that she is the shared topic of an angle and a demon freaks out and tries to run away! Really, sounds just _marvelous_ to me!"

"This is not the time for sarcasm, Aziraphale—wherever it is you got it from! And _you_ need to take care of her, because _you're the_ nice-guy sympathizer, REMEMBER?!?!"

"All right, all right!" Aziraphale, completely out of his normal temperament, seemed about to explode. "Just stop YELLING!!!"

Hearing an angel scream in pure anger and frustration seems to have some sort of strange affect on mortals.  Especially on those particular mortals who are currently trying to get /away/ from that angel.  Wynter found that, although she had just managed to get the door open, she was unable to move her legs in any reasonable manner, and that she was also unable to move her eyes _away_ from the source of that anger, and in her eyes, her lawful enemy.

Aziraphale was, literally, fuming.   Fortunately for Crowley, Wynter, and all the first edition "Old World" English books in the room, angels have unmatched limits of self control as far as unintended usage of magical powers go (second only to God, when he finds that in drawing from the deck, he gets a two of clubs instead of hearts, which would have been the winning card in his ineffable game of solitaire).

"This… will not… do."

Wynter felt an intense weight come away from her feet, as if she  was being released from some invisible chain that had held her up during the argument that had just pursued, and found herself falling to the ground out of exhaustion.  The lights seemed to fade out with every inch of air, and before it was completely dark, she could almost guarantee she had heard her head hit the floor with a rather loud smack…

Upon awaking, Wynter found herselfstill in the classroom, but that only the demon remained. Strangely enough, she found this more comforting than if the angel had been there as well.

"It's a good thing you woke up. Our angel boy was getting quite worried," said Crowley. "Normally he doesn't get that worked up about things. But, then again, you are a bit of a special case…"

Wynter just stared at the figure in front of her, who was currently was shuffling through the book shelves in a random order, as if he was avoiding her gaze.

"Who _are_ you?"

Crowley stopped short in his attempt to reach a fifth shelf book, and let loose a heavy sigh.

"Well, like you heard: I'm a demon. Well, I _was_ an angel once, but that was an incredibly long time ago… well, anyway," Crowley nodded his head at her in a mannerly fashion, and then continued with placing the fallen books back on the shelves, seemingly like he was used to the ordeal.  "Anthony J. Crowley, here.  You're Wynter, right?"

Wynter shook her head in disbelief. "Wait, now, just… just wait one _second_! I thought that demons were… well, erm-"

"Bright red with horns and spiked tails with a pitchfork and whip in each hand? Not quite.  We /can/ of course look like that, need be of course for the advertisements and all, but that's mainly derived from when my… um, Lord Satan… decided to play the part for All Hallows one year, just so he could be a surface dweller for a bit.  Well, you can tell as well as anyone that that stuck on pretty damn well."

There was a pause in the conversation, and a momentary transition of unease to calm. Wynter tried to start the conversation up again, not wanting silence to ensue for too long, simply because inactivity wasn't a quality she could appreciate. "Why are you two being nice to me, or even talking with me, for that matter? And what's all this about 'test subject' and such? I mean, sure, I admit it's kind of cool in a minor fashion getting to meet, ah, two individuals such as yourselves, but I mean, c'mon!  What do you two have to do with me at all?"

The demon just sort of stood there for a moment, looking a bit dazed by the fact that she had actually brought up /this/ particular subject.  He had been _hoping_ that the fall might have had an affect on her memory, seeing as under the circumstances he wasn't allowed to alter her perspective in any way.  Crowley was contemplating how exactly he was going to answer her question without actually saying anything of consequence, or being the demon that he was and yelling at her whilst most pointedly refusing, when a much appreciated knock on the door took him away from the desperate girl's eyes.

Aziraphale was at the door, still looking both a little bewildered and pale—for an angel, that is. Crowley took a quick look back at Wynter, gave a masked and faked expression of apologetic concern, then trained his attention back to the angel, and stepped outside, shutting the door silently behind him.

"So did you get into the files?"

"Yes…" answered the angel, a bit somberly.  Aziraphale looked like he had just gone through a premium carwash, whole body dragging to the ground, except for the fact that he wasn't covered in suds or dripping water on the hallway concrete.  "You were right; she qualifies just fine, even with the… incident.  Heaven is pleased with the selection, although I think they would have satisfied themselves with almost any choice.  They were literally rooting for the project at its production." Crowley prepared to answer the question that he knew was coming up, but dropped short when Aziraphale added almost absent-mindedly "How is she?" in an innocent kind of tone.

"Yes, the underground devils were dancing with fury," spilled forth from Crowley's mouth before he could reshape the words to the question that had actually been asked.

Crowley recovered quickly when the angel looked up at him pensively. "She'll be all right.  More shocked than anything, really.  You know what an _angel's_ fury can do to some people, especially those as unaccustomed to the world as herself-"

"Yes, yes… that's, that's good then." Turning toes to go back inside (having resolved that point blankly ignoring her questions all together would be the best track from here on in), Crowley stopped, and turned to find Aziraphale with a very puzzling look spread across his face.  The demon looked into the eyes of his angel friend and tried to fathom the emotions that sprinted through them the moment those words were muttered, but Crowley never was the good at recognizing gracious relief _or_ intentional sympathy, so it passed him by.

"You can come in, you know. Actually, you'd better if you still intend this damned thing to work out.  She just asked about the project—not directly, of course, but close enough—so it would be a very good thing if you could come in and help me out here. Don't want to go cursing our subject before we even begin, now.  You're okay with it?"

"Oh, I'm just fine with it! Just, will _she_ be well enough if I come in…?"  Aziraphale was honestly worried for the girl, as any angel would be, after all.

"Yes.  Just… don't be too forward with her.  She's liable to be a good deal frightened with you still, with good right.  Not in my line of work to care, but it'll be some bad news if this goes sour.  This project you've thought up."

"Yes… yes, yes.  That will be good, then."

The demon proceeded to open the door a crack, and then almost closed it again in order to whisper behind:

"Oh, and _do_ put the wings away, Aziraphale.  We don't need to frighten her with any more unnecessary celestial presence, now, do we?"  It almost sounded as if the demon was sarcastically tempting the demon to see what would come of such a foolish action.  Fortunately, having known his devilish companion for a good many centuries, Aziraphale had lost that gullibility some time ago.  Or, at least to the extent required for _this_ situation.

Crowley opened the door fully and walked in as if none of the past few hours had happened; a hesitant angel followed in behind.

[A/N: Yes.  So I'm sure I've lost some audience members now, because of what you've read.  I thank all and everyone who commented on the last (first) chapter, and I encourage more for this! CRITICISM GOOD!

Ah. *Ahem* Yes, the OOCness of it all.  Well, I had an idea of how I wanted the two portrayed, and I conveyed it better in this version than the original, I think.  The original was done with the two main characters in the head… but both sharing a body.  Get's a little confusing who says what opinion and all in that kind of situation.  Notes:

(1) Some of the things Crowley says are b/c I'm skipping around the swearing lot of it.  Who says demons can't be a tad respectful in their speech?

(2) Aziraphale yelling.  I can personally see him doing it.  I don't know.  Take it well or leave it hating me.

(3) I know that Crowley calls Aziraphale "Angel" a good deal more than he did in comparison to the book.  This is kind of just my take.  I'm not intending any loving or slashing in this fic!  The "Angel" is just my donation to what seems almost the inevitable truth and cause of this fandom… nothing more.  ::grins slightly:: And it's cute.

(4) A good lot of their strangeness (particularly here concerning Crowley when alone with Wynter) is because of the "project."  Will be explained… LATER!

Okay.  Coming up we've got the **calm** *HA!* confrontation and meeting of the three characters, some skirting around the edges of what is really going on, a bit with the Bentley, and Wynter just about ready to smack Crowley and know Aziraphale senseless enough that she can run home and forget all about it.  Of course, we won't REALLY let that happen now, will we?  Also, for those who are getting annoyed, chapter for shall be wholefully dedicated to the "project," and will  be explained so far as even what the angel and demon know put together.  Hope I haven't lost too much of you who liked the first chapter.  COMMENT!]


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